Chaos Effect
by RaistlinofMetallica
Summary: The Winter of 1998; Voldemort has won. London is in ruins. A teenager still has things to do before he dies. Snape knows the cold brings disaster.
1. Ruins

Chaos Effect

By RaistlinofMetallica

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Blanket disclaimer: Anything you recognize, except for my OCs and the plot, I don't own. I do this for fun and absolutely no profit.

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I: Ruins

It was the winter of 1998, a cold and merciless winter. A skeletally thin teenager stood in the ruins of a building, looking down over the eerily quiet rubble and blackened shells of once proud townhouses and skyscrapers. Snow fell from the darkened sky, covering the destroyed city in serene whiteness. The teenager sighed, steam from his breath trailing away from his gaunt face. He knew this once-proud city before it fell, in what seemed like ages long past.

These countless miles of ruins used to be London, a little less than two years before. He could remember the great bustling city and the noise, but it was now just a painful memory. Countless battles had been fought here, exploding out of control and staining the ground with blood. They had learned quickly, the muggles, of the destructive capabilities of magic and of the world that had been hidden from them for so long. But, even that wouldn't save them in the end.

London was only the first to fall as the darkness spread like a malignant tumour through the UK and into Europe. It had spread astonishingly fast, faster than anyone had ever dreamed possible. Millions of people died in less than five months. Millions more would die in the year to come. Those that fought back died quickly; they were the lucky ones. People who couldn't fight starved to death or succumbed to the elements. If they survived that, there were the patrols, dark creatures and sickness to contend with.

He had survived through that violent first year, when many he loved did not. The memories of their faces still haunted him with their smiles and laughter, but their deaths had inured him to horror and sorrow. There had come a time when he had ceased to bury the dead. He had not the strength to spare for the dead. The dead had found freedom from this nightmare, while the living still suffered on.

Survivors of the war were scattered to the four winds. Some hid out in the ruins, always moving from one spot to the next. He hadn't seen any of their tell-tale fires or coded marks anywhere. It was safe to assume that the survivors living above ground had finally been wiped out by the patrols. Abandoned buildings above ground were not to be trusted; they were usually trapped. Patrols would descend on the trapped houses and slaughter everyone inside.

Those that remained hid in the sewers and the tunnels of the Underground, where it was harder to find them in the miles of twisting labyrinth under the ruins. He had survived there, under the city. He had avoided people for the longest time, avoiding looking at the coded marks that other survivors had left behind. But, some time ago, food had become scarce and he was desperate. It was of little comfort to be around people again. There was no more pity or sympathy, only the suffering and broken spirits. When he had finally left them three days ago, they were starving to death under the city and the patrols were getting bolder, coming deeper into the tunnels than ever before.

The teenager pulled his tattered and stained cloak tighter around him, shivering from the piercing wind. It was his fault that this had happened. This living nightmare was because he was weak and bitter at those he thought had betrayed him. He let the darkness in and it destroyed everything he held dear. The war merely finished what was left, dragging the whole world into hell.

He reached into a tear in his oversized sleeves, withdrawing a battered wand. It seemed like an eternity since he had used it – since he had used his magic. Nearly two years... It felt like twenty. Days and nights were lost in the Underground and time seemed to slip by in strange ways while he skulked under the ruins.

It was a dream or a memory, possibly both, that brought him back to the surface: a locked door, deep in the earth, with a weapon behind it. There were golden statues, shattered across the floor, and a lift that went down and down into the earth. The weapon was still there, the building lost under the rubble. If he could find it, then maybe he could find redemption before he died.

He would have to hurry, though. He didn't have much time. His left arm itched, prickling, and he suppressed a shudder of revulsion. The teenager raised the wand and, voice cracking from lack of use, he whispered, _"Point me."_

The wand's tip glowed with light, dimming as he moved it to his left and brightening as he moved it back. A ghost of a smile traced his lips. Slowly, the gaunt teenager started forward, into the heart of the decimated city, his sunken green eyes staring ahead dully.

It had been a long time since he'd seen the Ministry building.

Nearly two years, in fact.


	2. Pain

Chaos Effect

By RaistlinofMetallica

II: Pain

The teenager had walked for what seemed like days in the wasteland, following the light of the spell. Coughing and sniffling, he trudged on through the snow-covered ruins towards his goal. He cursed inwardly as his eyesight spun, causing him to stumble. He knew he was dying; it was inevitable at this point. If the cold didn't kill him, he could still starve to death or let the sickness take him. But he wouldn't let death take him until he found that weapon. He would have vengeance before he died and it would bring him absolution.

His left arm was itching again, a reminder of his sins. He could feel it writhing under his skin and he loathed it. But, he wouldn't scratch it. Instead, he focused on the people he once knew - those people that he would avenge. Focusing on their memories drove away the itching in his arm and he was able to continue on once more.

A crow cawed from its perch on a crumbling windowsill. The teenager gave the bird an admonishing look, as though to remind it that these ruins were a graveyard. With a squawk, the crow took to the sky and he moved on. The light at the tip of his wand grew brighter as he approached the crest of the hill. It couldn't be much further now.

Searing pain suddenly shot through his forehead, as though he'd been stabbed by a hot poker. He cried out as a second bolt of pain threatened to snap his left arm in two; it felt like the bones were being crushed. Toppling forward, he hit the ground hard - only to keep rolling down the hill until he came to a stop.

Whimpering, he curled into a ball and ignored _those_ instincts that told him to apparate to _his_ side. The teenager bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, but he didn't care. The pain kept him from listening to the call. He had only been foolish enough to listen a few times and he loathed himself for doing so. Yet, he could recall the freedom, the power of the darkness... and the feeling of finally belonging.

The price, however, was more than he could bear.

It was his fault that he'd been thrust into this predicament in the first place. He had gotten angry at his family and went for a walk to clear his head. He should have known better than to step off the property. He was stunned, bound and taken to the Dark Lord. Much to his surprise, he was not tortured; Voldemort talked to him, telling him of Dumbledore's lies and of conspiracies that the Ministry had concocted - betrayals, all of them. The Dark Lord offered him power to take vengeance on his betrayers, to teach him. But it was the offer of family that drew the teenager in the end and, coupled with the encouraging whispers of the Legilimens lacing everything he had been told, he had agreed willingly.

That night and those that followed always had a strange surreal quality about them when recalled, as though he wasn't quite himself then. He had felt strangely happy and content, willingly taking the mark of the one individual who had shaped him more thoroughly than any. In a sense, he had come to adopt the Dark Lord as a kind of surrogate father and, like most children do, he wanted to please his father. The thought of failure never entered his mind during that time, nor did any inklings of his previous outlook on things. It was his desire to belong - to have a family that had trapped him in the dream-like spell and it was his anger at his betrayers that fuelled his lack of care.

He was the Dark Lord's pupil, a protégé that carried natural talent and a desire to learn. Their skills were quite similar: both Parselmouths, their wands shared a core from the same Phoenix, and neither of them happened to be particularly gifted with Occlumency, natural Legilimens as they were. Then, of course, there was the magic itself. It was like an addiction. The rush of power that accompanied each curse he cast elated him, making his blood pound in his veins. The more power behind a spell, the greater the rush he received.

Then, somehow, the spell shattered and the surreal haze that covered his mind was lifted. And it dawned on him exactly what he'd done.

He had killed.

He had tortured.

He had revelled in the spilling of blood.

And he had welcomed it all. He had enjoyed giving orders, watching as Lucius and the Lestranges squirmed with impotent rage when they marched off to carry out his orders. With every curse he cast and with every order he gave, he would look to Voldemort for approval. He had looked forward to every lesson and to the pleased smile that crossed the Dark Lord's face when he mastered a new spell - when he killed. His hands were stained with so much blood.

Horrified and panicking, he had fled back to Hogwarts, the only place that could ever offer him refuge. He spent time in the Hospital Wing, recovering, but he knew the mental scars would never heal. His friends never knew the truth, either. Dumbledore had fed them lies about torture, about Voldemort attempting to force him to join the side of darkness. His friends had believed it, wholly, and welcomed him back without hesitation.

Then, the war had come in full. Some days, he was restrained in the Hospital Wing, writhing in pain as the call was relayed and sinking into strange trances that he could not entirely recall. The flashes of consciousness he could remember, he saw red hair and heard a girl's voice singing a lullaby, trying to chase away his demons. Other raids had caused him to leap at the windows and run for the doors, desperately trying to reach the battle. His friends had held him down and kept him calm, while London burned. They saved him, broke his addiction to the darkness.

And he missed them. Neville had died in Hogwarts, protecting a dying second-year during the siege. Ginny had been taken alive by the Death Eaters. Hermione had vanished, trying to start a rebellion; she was probably dead by now. Luna had died on the way to London, from a fever. Ron froze to death during that first winter. There were others he could remember, but where they had found their ends he did not know. Mercifully, they all died before they could see the world laid to waste at the feet of the Dark Lord. Only he survived and he would avenge them all.

The call dwindled, taking the pain away. Slowly, he rose from the ground and scanned the darkened horizon. They were probably looking for him. He would have to hurry, now more than ever. Quickly, he searched the ground for his wand and, once again, cast the spell to guide him to the Ministry.

He had to get there before Voldemort found him. He needed to get the weapon first. It was the only way to avenge everyone and lay his ghosts to rest.

"You can't get rid of me that easily, Potter!" the familiar mocking drawl called from beside him. Draco Malfoy stood there, neck twisted at an unnatural angle and a hole was blasted clean through the left side of his face.

It had been his first and only kill on Hogwarts grounds. He had hexed the Slytherin face-to-face, sending him over the top of the Astronomy Tower. The fall broke the blond's neck, but he was already dead.

But it wasn't until the spell over him shattered that the ghosts of his victims came back to haunt him. Naturally, Malfoy had appointed himself their leader and representative. He was always the first to appear and the last to leave, furious as he was about being murdered by a Gryffindor. They had been quiet of late and he had almost forgotten about them. Perhaps the memories were dredging them up.

"Don't think you can just ignore us forever, Potter," the dead Slytherin sneered, as the other victims appeared behind him. "We'll be with you until we see you dragged down to hell!"

He moved the wand, watching as the light changed. "I can see right through you, Malfoy," he whispered hoarsely and walked forward. He moved the wand again, raising and lowering it. The light grew brighter as he moved it closer to the ground.

He deactivated the spell and quickly backed up several paces. Pointing at the ground, he cast the reductor curse with as much power as he could afford at the moment. Satisfied with the smouldering hole blasted in the ground, he stalked forward and peered down into the darkness beneath.

"What do you think you're going to find down there?" Malfoy asked, glaring. "Redemption? Potter, nothing you can do could ever wipe your sins clean. Your hands will remain stained with our blood."

Sitting, he swung his legs over the edge of the hole. "I met a man in the tunnels of the Underground, once. He told me that a weapon was hidden in the Ministry, a weapon that could destroy Voldemort. But he died before he could tell me what it was," he whispered, remembering the odd blond man in the battered trench coat. It was a long time ago - or it seemed that way. There was another one, too, that he'd run into later, who knew more about the weapon than the blond man - Hunter, that was his name.

"What good would it be if you killed Voldemort, Potter?" the dead Slytherin snarled. "The world wouldn't change. Your friends would still be dead and the Death Eaters are in too great a number for you to survive for very long. Not to mention that nasty cold you're developing..."

He closed his eyes and coughed. "You're an annoying dead prat, did you know that?" With a snort, he added, "The weapon will change everything, Malfoy, at least according to Hunter."

"You mean the crazy bloke who thought the goddess Skuld was following him around? The one who died in his sleep, ranting about computers, mallets, and ice cream?" asked the dead blond boy. "The one who looked like you and you couldn't save him..."

Rolling his eyes, he sighed, "Yes, Malfoy, _that_ was Hunter."

"Maybe he should be standing with us," the dead boy commented, the other victims behind him nodding in assent. "You could have saved him, you know."

He coughed again and sniffled, retorting, "Hunter didn't want to be saved. He wanted to go with his goddess. That's why he told me what the weapon did... so he could go with her."

"You still should have tried," Malfoy said, accusingly.

He glared at the ghost. "You are an annoying guilty conscience, Ferret. I can't even hear myself think with you carrying on like that!"

"Talking to yourself again, Potter?" the dead Slytherin taunted. "You are _barking_." This elicited a chuckle from the other victims - those that still had heads and throats, that is.

The teenager shrugged, "Probably." He looked up at his ghosts again. "But, if what Hunter told me was true, then it can all change."

The ghosts of his victims did not look impressed.

He coughed and added, "History, I mean."

There was silence a moment.

"You know that Hunter was out of his bleeding mind, right?" Malfoy said, finally.

He nodded. "I suppose so... but he had his good moments."

"Too true... So, change history, eh?" the dead Slytherin considered. "Sounds risky - too many unforeseen consequences to take in to account..." he paused a moment and then beamed triumphantly. "But, I'd get my perfect face back!"

The rest of the ghosts seemed both stunned and utterly appalled.

"-Which _you_ put a curse through!" the dead blond hissed, seething as he jabbed his insubstantial finger into the teenager's shoulder. "Potter, you're lucky I'm just a manifestation of your guilt..."

The mark itched again. "You can torment me later, Malfoy," the teenager sighed. "Voldemort's coming for me. I've got to get the weapon before he gets here."

"You're mad, you know," the dead Slytherin said, rather matter-of-factly.

He nodded again, wondering what it would be like to stick his wand through the hole in the Slytherin's head. "I know."

The teenager slid down into the darkness as the ghosts of his victims faded away. He felt rather like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit-hole. Perhaps he, too, would land in Wonderland. He wondered what his white rabbit would look like. Knowing his luck, he'd probably get a ferret instead.

Yes, he noted, he was definitely mad.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised.


	3. Descent

Chaos Effect

By RaistlinofMetallica

III: Descent

"Lumos," the teenager whispered hoarsely, raising his wand. A soft white light sparked at the tip, casting a dull illumination over the underground hallway. The air was stale and musty, the stench of decay hanging stagnant. He briefly recalled that people used to work here and that they had probably died here, too. Dark stains splattered the wooden floor in violent, jagged streaks that he found strangely beautiful. It was almost like that muggle abstract art, life reduced to lines and splatters of dried blood.

Slowly, he shuffled forward, stepping over the remains of a shattered golden fountain. He could recall it distantly, an effigy to pride and ignorance, and found a strange satisfaction at finding it destroyed. There was no more water here, though he could still see shining coins littered across the basin of the fountain; there was no one left to collect them.

The fireplaces he remembered were completely destroyed, nothing more than mere rubble. Odd details of Voldemort's plan came back to him now and he distantly recalled that the first objective in the Ministry was to cut off any means of escape or entry for reinforcements. There were other objectives, but they were hazy in his mind and slipped through his fingers like so many grains of sand.

He had not seen the attack on the Ministry, as Voldemort hadn't been there to witness it, but he did recall the day it fell. It had been described by the scant survivors as a slaughter; he had been listening to them from his bed in the Hospital Wing, smiling while they described who they knew had fallen. He strangled one of them that night, but was stopped before he could do any real damage. Madam Pomfrey had him placed in full restraints and drugged after that. He couldn't remember why he'd done it.

The golden gates stood before him, hanging crazily on their hinges. They were twisted and blackened in places, but passable. His eyes wandered to an overturned, fire-blasted desk on the left. At one point, it had been used as a barricade but it was clear that it hadn't been effective in that department. There were two extremely desiccated corpses half crushed beneath it. One was wearing the remains of peacock blue robes.

"Security check!" he giggled, grinning widely as kneeled down next to them. "Submit to a search and wand registration or be destroyed!"

The corpses did not answer.

The teenager thought this was rather rude of them and stood, scowling. "Fucking bastards!" he spat and brought his foot down on the skull of the blue-robed corpse, smashing it. Rotting tissue and small bits of hair and skull clung to his shoe as he raised his foot.

"Gross," he said, smiling absently. The weapon was around here somewhere, behind a door that was always locked, buried deep within the earth. He moved towards the golden gates and manoeuvred past them into the smaller hall beyond. There were more corpses here and the faint smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air. Soon, he found the lifts – or what was left of them, anyway. Like the gates, the golden grilles were ruined, twisted at odd angles in places.

He brought his wand close to the grate, dimly illuminating two sturdy cables. His left arm burned with pain and he drew a hissing breath, biting back the urge to swear. They were getting closer. There was no time to go looking for the stairs. He clenched his wand in his teeth and got down on his hands and knees. Crawling under a twisted portion of the grille, he quickly looked around for anything he could grab onto.

The teenager rolled onto his back and grabbed onto the grille, pulling himself through. He grunted in pain; his body was too weak for this. He would probably die here. He managed a strangled cough and moved closer to the middle of the grille. He would only have one chance at this. With one hand, he reached out until his fingers felt the cables hanging in the centre of the shaft. He clasped his hand around one of them and swung out to wrap his other hand around it as well. Now all he had to do was make his way to the bottom of the shaft. He vaguely recalled that the ninth and last level accessible by the lift was only about a floor down, but in the darkness it seemed an eternity away.

He reached up and grabbed his wand again. He didn't want to waste what little remained of his energy on spells, but there wasn't much choice here. He had to get to the bottom quickly and he didn't have the physical strength to climb down. Slowly, the spells and lessons came back to him; he breathed the words that made him as light as a feather and felt the magic wind around him like a ribbon. Letting go of the cables, he floated down, deeper and deeper into the rabbit-hole.

But rabbit-holes do not have half-crushed lifts at the bottom, nor do they have small emergency doors for access. The teenager wondered if perhaps this was not an ordinary rabbit-hole, but one in Wonderland. There was no doorknob, only a tiny latch with a hook on it. It wasn't talking, but few things did anymore. He kneeled down and undid the latch, but the door seemed to be stuck.

_"Reducto,"_ he hissed, pointing his wand at the small door. It exploded into the lift, scattering down over the remains of several bodies. The smell of burnt flesh and rot was violently strong here. He looked down at them, all stacked like charred playing cards. So that was what they did with the majority of the bodies from the upper floors. He swung his legs over the edge of the small access door and carefully slid down.

The teenager struggled, his feet unable to find purchase on the bodies. He couldn't breathe here, either from the stench or from the sickness – he couldn't tell anymore. But he managed to get to the doors at last and found one twisted and mangled. The second door had been blown clear off and was lying across the hall floor.

"Department of Mysteries," he whispered, stepping out of the ruined elevator. To his left, he could see the stairs leading to the old courtrooms and felt very tempted to destroy them. Instead, he walked to the plain black door at the end of the corridor – it was behind that door, the weapon he was looking for, just waiting for him.

A skeleton lay next to the door, a broken wand in its hand. Smashed glasses hung crookedly from the skeleton's face. Several tufts of flame-red hair clung to what remained of the flesh on the skull. He recognized him instantly.

The teenager leaned down and stared at the skeleton. "I told you, didn't I?" he breathed, leaning close to the skull. "But you didn't listen to me. _Nobody_ fucking listened to _me!_ Now look at what happened! Everybody's dead or dying and the world's a fucking pile of rubble! Do you know how many people died because you didn't _fucking listen to me?"_

"Nearly half a billion in the first year alone, by my estimation," a voice said from somewhere nearby. A head emerged from the wall, shining and pearly-white. He was familiar, though the last time the teenager had seen him was two years ago. "Of course, I've had plenty of time to do the calculations, but I fear my math may be wrong. I can't really remember the accurate statistics anymore..."

The ghost adjusted his glasses on his nose and looked down at the skull. "Oh dear, it's been a long time, hasn't it? I really shouldn't look that bad... Well, it could be worse, I suppose."

The teenager stared at the ghost blankly. "A ghost is here... Are you my rabbit, here to guide me down the rabbit-hole? You don't look like a rabbit."

"I am here to guard the weapon," the ghost said, quite self-importantly. "I'm waiting for the one who can use it. You wouldn't happen to be him, would you?"

"Well, I want to use it, you big stupid git, but I obviously have to get the key from you, right?" the teenager countered acidly.

The ghost turned to look at him directly for the first time. "I think I remember you," he said quietly. "But, no, they killed everyone at the school... You can't be him. It seems I will guard this door forever, now."

"I escaped the school with a few friends, but they're all gone now," the teenager said absently. "I'm going to avenge them all."

The ghost grinned. "So... You think that you can use the weapon... You have one foot in the grave already, traveller. What makes you so certain that you can use it?"

"Perfect Prefect Percy, you stubborn git," the teenager growled. "You know who I am."

A strange expression passed over the ghost's face. "You're a liar."

"You're even more of a fucking pain now that you're dead, Weatherby. Thought I forgot that, didn't you?" the teenager countered and coughed violently. "Look, I'm sure you're going to continue to be a fucking pain and make me wait, but _in case you haven't fucking noticed_: I am coughing my fucking lungs out, half-frozen, starving, and Voldemort's on his way here to find me! So, unless you fancy the idea of _him_ getting the fucking weapon, you had better let me fucking pass!"

The ghost narrowed its pearly-white eyes at him and reached forward, brushing the tangled, filthy mess off of the teenager's forehead. "You swear more than I remember, Harry."

"I don't deserve a name anymore," the teenager said quickly. "Just show me the way."

The ghost nodded silently and gestured to the black door. It creaked as it opened, but neither the ghost nor the teenager minded much. They entered the circular black room with its featureless black doors and let the door close behind them. The room began to spin, whirling until there was no way that they could find the exit.

"This way," the ghost said, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he floated over to one of the featureless doors. He lingered in front of it like a beacon. "Behind this door is something very powerful, mysterious and terrible. I don't quite understand it myself and I've been reading up on it... There hadn't been much to do while I was waiting, I'm afraid. It is theorized that it is some sort of emotional amplifier, but there is no conclusive evidence to prove this. However, it has been reported to react very strongly to emotions –"

The teenager rolled his eyes as he stepped forward and put his hand on the door. "Oh, shut up, Percy, and unlock the door."

"Very well," the ghost sighed and floated through the door. There were several loud clicks and crackling noises from the other side before the ghost returned. "It is open now. I will be outside, standing guard."

He nodded, looking away from the ghost.

"Today will be busy," the ghost said, more to himself than not, and disappeared through the wall.

Slowly, the teenager pushed against the door and, this time, it opened. The circular room was instantly enveloped in a blinding white light. He winced, trying to shield his eyes, and thought he saw something moving toward him or he was moving toward it, being pulled into the white light. It was getting hard to breathe and his chest constricted painfully. Gasping for breath, he cried out in pain and tried desperately to keep awake. He couldn't die here, not this close to succeeding!

On the very edge of consciousness, a voice filled his ears – one that he had never heard before and it filled him with a terror that he had never known.

_Greetings, child. I have been waiting for you._

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AN: Ok, long time, I know. Crazy Harry just wouldn't get out of his fetal position and stop muttering. Percy was amazingly helpful, though, since he was quite dead in this. As a general reminder, Harry in this story has very brief periods of lucidity but he has no real distinction between reality and delusion, hence why he asks Percy if he is the white rabbit. Next chapter: Touzas! Reviews are good... 


	4. Cold

**Chaos Effect**

_By RaistlinofMetallica_

_Warnings for chapter: _none

**IV: Cold**

It was colder than usual and Severus Snape felt it boded ill. Ever since things had fallen apart, he'd come to associate cold with impending disaster. It was a cold summer day when Potter disappeared. It was a cold night when Voldemort presented his _charming_ pet monster and Severus's tongue was cut in two. It was cold when a stark raving mad Potter staggered back into Hogwarts and it was cold when the Ministry fell.

He shivered.

The cold was never ending now, as if the war had bled the warmth of life from the world, and he knew it wouldn't be long now before it all ended. He wasn't able to tell anyone – and wouldn't have, even if he still could – but their supplies were dwindling steadily and he knew the Death Eater patrols were coming closer and closer to finding their one remaining refuge, the small ruin of an industrial district they'd renamed Thamasa.

There was a frigid blast of air as the doors banged open, Hermione Granger entering. Behind her, a handful of her most healthy and fast scouts carried a body wrapped in blankets. They dumped the body on one of his cots and scuttled out as quickly as possible.

"Heal him," she said, frostily. "I want him up and talking."

Severus moved to the cot and peeled back the blankets, revealing Potter's sunken, sweat-covered face. The boy was unconscious with a raging fever, his eyes rolled back into his head and bloody phlegm covering his lips. He was sure the boy had died in the invasion of Hogwarts two years ago. There'd been no word, no sign from either side, and, to think that all this time, the damnable boy had held on.

And yet...

Severus was no mediwizard, but he knew the boy was dying, and made a gesture indicating this.

"Do it," Granger said.

He sighed and started pulling out some of the limited amounts of potions he had left. _This is a waste_, he tried to tell her, but he knew it was useless.

This Granger wasn't the Gryffindor know-it-all of days long past. She, like everything, had become cold. Whatever had happened to her before she found him had utterly destroyed the girl she was. Gone was her kindness, gone were her annoying tics. It had all been replaced by this glacial, fearless and utterly ruthless young woman. She kept him around because he was useful in spite of his cut tongue and made it utterly clear from the start that she'd leave him to the patrols if he stopping being useful. And yet, she was the best shot these people had. For a while, they'd even thrived.

She shut the doors. "We found him in the ruins of the Ministry, in the Department of Mysteries. He may have recovered the location of a weapon."

Severus didn't respond, instead focusing on his patient. What was she hoping to accomplish anyway? Even if she could and did take down Voldemort, the damage had already been done. The world was doomed.

"We need that weapon," Granger said, clenching her fists. "If it is what I think it is..."

Severus shook his head, throwing up his arms as he stepped back from his patient and glared at her, grunting in displeasure. He focused his thoughts into a veritable sledgehammer as he mentally spat the prophecy at her and his complete unabridged opinion on the Boy-Who-Was-Dying's condition.

Granger, to her credit, didn't even flinch, her eyes icy. "If that's the case, I _suggest_ you see to it he lives."

Severus scowled at her, but went back to treating the unconscious boy.

"One more thing," she said, moving over to the cot. She pulled away the blankets and tore off the rags covering one of Potter's arms, revealing the ugly familiar form of the Dark Mark. "Be on guard at all times."

Severus stared at the Mark in horror as cold bathed the room once more and he was left alone to treat the dying boy.

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AN: I didn't expect to ever work on this again, but I found some inspiration lying around and have decided to finish this off.

So, Hermione survived, but is obviously not better off for it. Snape lived, but is clearly not in decent shape either.


End file.
